Heaven Won't Hold It Against You
by thelogicerror
Summary: "There's someplace I gotta be." Post-Truth And Justice Epilogue.


The first liberated sunset retreated slowly from the windowpane, and only a flickering lightbulb lit the quiet bathroom of the travel center. A whistle of a lukewarm breeze and the soft showers tapped over the building, serving to remind Murphy Pendleton that he was alone, but not really. Just like the contours of trees and leaves that swayed across the walls as though they were arms, grasping out of his peripheral vision... it left a paranoid feeling. Like someone was watching him. He figured it would be a long time before he ever truly got over that feeling, if he ever would at all. He wasn't only used to it, but he was prepared for it, among other things that lied ahead of him in wait.

Running water splashed from the sink. The knob creaked noisily when he moved to turn it shut, leaving a few stray drops to create little ripples of his own dirty image, which stared red-eyed back at him. Hands gripped either side of the rusty sink and with a long and lasting inhale, he leaned forward. Deliberately, he submerged his face into the full basin. In the lingering seconds and the slowness of time, he opened his eyes. He got a good look at the bleary rippling of pure water and sink, accompanied by the distorted drips of water and the hollowed sounds among imminent surroundings.

A recent memory from only hours ago still played out fresh in his mind, like a movie that went on and on. At times, Murphy could still hear the radio chatter of from the policewoman's walkie-talkie, and all else that followed...

_It trickles lightly overhead, padding against the broken metal of the crashed bus. He cocks his head slightly, brows knit as he listens and realizes how brief that these minutes of reconciliation will be. For his time is up, and they both know it._

_"I should go."_

_He notes how the piercing gaze of Anne Cunningham reflects something else now. Not hatred towards him, but new understanding. It holds there, burning a photograph into his mind just as her words had when she speaks: "I guess you better."_

_Something is wrong._

_His time is up. They'll be coming for him soon. If he doesn't hurry..._

_"Wait." Cunningham calls out to him again. He stops, a passing glance is cast her way. "Where are you going?"_

_It's a perfectly reasonable question._

Lungs burning, Murphy pulled himself up for air. Water dribbled down his face and into the sink, filled to the brim. For long, uncountable moments, he held his gaze with the reflection of that other man in the mirror. Unshaven, the five o'clock shadow settled across his jawline, and felt rough as he traced his hands across his own appearances. In those uncountable moments, he wasn't sure who he saw. Not himself, or his conscience — no Frank in the mirror, sharing words of encouragement to help keep him going this time.

That was what he had to tell himself now... He had to keep going.

Patrols were still on the lookout for him. Not a second went by within those hours of freedom that he half expected to hear the call sirens or the approach of K-9 units, coming for him. Fear and dread kicked in. He couldn't allow himself to get caught again. Not when he'd come this far, and definitely not after all he'd been through.

It wasn't like he was still completely without blame. But then, Murphy wasn't proud of the fact that he had to break into someone's house shortly after leaving that town, either... even if, of course, no one had been home at the time. It actually wasn't much of a surprise to come in to empty homes with locked and boarded up doors. Rather than tempting fate, he hung out long enough only to grab what he needed there — a bag, some change of clothes, a useless trinket that had caught his eye over the pile of many toys in a forsaken playroom.

Some other _essentials _and nothing more...

There was no way Murphy would be able to make it very far like that, wearing an inmate number of the Overlook Penitentiary on his back. Fortunately, he found that these clothes had fit him, albeit maybe a size or two too large. It was a damned improvement from the gaudy red jumpsuit he'd been forced into during his last hours in Hell.

Here and now, Murphy finished cleaning himself up the best he could. But he'd hitched a ride on the way out Silent Hill, and didn't dare to take his time picking out all the little filth from underneath his fingernails. As much as he'd like to, he wanted nothing more than to scrape every last remain of that town and put it far, far behind him.

He hesitated, reaching over to the paper towel dispenser, ripped out a sheet, and ran it over his soaked face. He breathed into it, face momentarily fallen into his hands. His head shook off the wet and memories. Looking back at the mirror this time, he half-expected Frank's image to appear to him again. Shit, he _wanted_it to, if only to maybe offer him some kind of direction, but he knew better.

From here on out in this almost waking dream, he was on his own.

_She asks him: "Where are you going?"_

_It's a very simple question while something else, dark and lingering, catches in her eye._

"There's some place I gotta be..." Murphy repeated to himself. It had been his mantra, the words that kept him alive for as long as he could run. He readied himself for it. Hell, he had a lifetime of running ahead of him.

Dropping the damp sheet into the trash, he left the flickering bathroom to meet his ride, waiting for him outside. They were headed for Boston, and it was going to be a long drive.

* * *

**2_  
_**

_Don't call me. Don't write. I never want to see you again._

Murphy had known better than to call Carol. That didn't mean he wasn't entirely disinclined to call her, just to see how she was doing. Maybe she was well. Maybe she'd moved on. In life's film that just kept on playing forever inside Murphy's dream, he actually hoped so. After everything she had been through, after all that he had put her through, Carol deserved to be happy. There was no going back to what they once were, he knew... so he had hung up the very notion before she ever had the chance to answer a phone call.

She probably would've changed her number, anyway. Moved elsewhere. Found someone else. Lord knows he would have, for the most part. Murphy tried to justify these reasons for why he just couldn't at least stop by to see her. In the end, he was pretty certain he knew the answer all along.

_Where are you going?_

If it was one thing you could count on staying the same, it was cemeteries. And Saint Mary's hadn't changed at all since the last he'd been there. He always figured there was a reason for that. One would find it difficult to imagine a place like this ever being a happy retreat, especially where children were buried.

The good thing was that not many would come strolling through here at night. Save for the company of crows, with heads tucked in their feathers, Murphy was entirely alone. The grim-dark ambiance left an uninviting appeal, though perhaps he had just become benumbed to it. His time spent in Silent Hill didn't entirely liberate him from fear and worry, but there was _something _about this place, and it dwelled here, very much alive. It wasn't just the calming face of the Mother, her statue bearing over him, her arms outstretched with love and forgiveness... This was something more.

Perhaps he was a fool; Murphy figured that he would be relatively safe here. While he was well aware that coming back to this place may not have been the wisest decision he could have made, this might be the only chance he'd ever have to see his son like this again. His conscience, as usual, had a remarkable tendency to rule out all reason.

One could never expect it to get any easier to cope with. Seeing his son's name, etched in stone, the grass grown over the soil from the years after the burial, where fresh daffodils were already arranged at the vase. He gambled on the likelihood that Carol also still frequented here, paying respects to her son while Murphy was stuck in prison and could not...

But he was here now, finally, where he never thought that he would be again. Standing in this spot, limp as he was, clutching new scars and watching the rain river down his boy's epitaph. It begged a new meaning to his struggles, to everything that he had learned and dealt with.

He knew it was never going to get any easier.

That was okay. The pain was somehow sobering, which he craved and needed long after he accepted that it was never going away.

"Hey, Charlie. I... I brought you something." Admittedly, he found it infinitely more difficult to talk like this; addressing his son in this light. But as he reached into the pocket of his thick coat, and pulled out a toy car, Murphy forgot about all of that. A small smile crept across his face, as he gingerly placed the little trinket from the house over the headstone. Having taken it outright from that toybox was the one thing he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty for. "I know your birthday was a months ago, but I didn't think I'd be able to..." The words rattled with his shaken breath.

Just when it didn't seem like it could get any better, it got worse. The rain fell, mixed with soak and tears. His knees gave way, and he fell, boots and jeans now sullied in mud, and his reasons just left him without a care. His hair clung to his head as he tipped it back, with the rain in his eyes. His hand balled into a tight fist over Charlie's name, the hammering of his heart in his blood that so suddenly rushed from his head...

For him, time had stopped. Maybe it had been that way for quite awhile. He'd lost track as to how much of it had gone by since his boy had left the world, and not even revenge or a town could ever make it turn for him again. There was a bittersweet justice in his dirty road. The monster that dared to ever lay his hands on a child... That monster was gone, reaped what he had sown. But something else definitely lived inside. Murphy could deny it and it would never leave him, or he could own up to that dark half he had taken in to himself. Either way still hurt like a son of a bitch.

_If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything._

"I miss you."

The truth was oftentimes harder to say out loud, but there it was. Ripped and split wide and bear out in the open. Broken and wet and torn apart. The shattered remains of a father, rendered to his knees at the grave of his child. For awhile, he stayed there, almost waiting for something. Arms clutched around his chest, with the prospect of _time _being of no essence or even a factor that meant a damn to him anymore.

Freedom seemed like a prospect that had no place in his life. In the end, where did this freedom leave his boy? Still buried, six feet under him, right here and now and forever. And in spite of the constant rainfall that poured down over the cemetery, his chest may as well have been on fire, burning him alive. His mouth tasted of hot ash when he reached into the inside of his coat, fingers brushing over the holster strapped over his shoulder...

_There's some place I gotta be._

_It was a small essential... thing..._

Crows jerked awake, squawked, before taking flight into the dusk.

Meanwhile, the safety clicked and suddenly the colt in Murphy's hand went incredibly cold.

_An essential. To him._

While kneeling and trembling in the face of his grief, a kind of certainty sustained him. And he sat up, clutching the loaded gun in his hand. He fell still, calm, quiet. The weeping pain and loss drifted in a clear memory, drenched and beautiful the moment the gun muzzle found the side of his head.

At the time, it was pure instinct that enticed him to pick up that gun. At the same time, after all that he had endured, it felt _so wrong _to have come to this. But it also felt wrong to live. Charlie, his murderer, and Frank... all blood that was forever on his hands, no matter how much soap he used to cleanse himself of it.

It wasn't right. He saw no moment in his future where things ever _would_be right.

Then came a harsh whisper, that sounded in his own voice: "I miss you..."

That was when Murphy Pendleton pulled the trigger, and he remembered nothing.

* * *

**3**

He then had dreams of a son. A vibrant field and birds humming like an old and familiar song. He dreamed of a blue sky and a shady area underneath a tree, and a time where he could imagine a rare something that was once true and pure and jubilant. For six years, he knew what it was like to be the happiest man in the world. He could spend hours in here, until his wife would come and tug them both back to a place called home. His son riding his shoulders, hand-in-hand with the love of his life... a perfect family in a hope for happily ever after...

_The birds are calling._

_(I keep dreaming about them.)  
_

_It's time to go home now._

The chamber was empty.

Cloudy skies and a peeking sun woke Murphy into the remarkably dry morning. He blinked through the bleary haze that worsened his vision; feeling the soft, sharp feet tap over his knee and the sound of a chirp. A blue blur moved sharply, before fluttering away, and then he slowly remembered that he was here. _He was always here._

Murphy had (foolishly) fallen asleep right there at the cemetery, with Charlie's grave propped up against his side. He groaned through the throbbing headache that momentarily blinded him. Despite the state of his temperance and the clarity of his end-life choices, Murphy felt like he'd just suffered the worst hangover. He might as well have, after all the Hell that he'd subjected himself to...

When the hasty realization suddenly crept on at him, it hit him like a tidal wave. A storm cracked and crashed inside of his mind. The useless gun he gripped, still in his hand, slipped from his fingers as his hands lifted to his face. Shame climbed from the pain in his belly when he realized what he had done. Or, rather, what he _could have done,_and where he was merely inches of crawling towards.

"Oh God, Charlie... I'm sorry. _I'm sorry, I didn't..." _He could imagine what it must be like, finding him here, with a gun in one hand and the dirt from his son's grave in the other, and it made him sick with his own disgust.

Where he was going at the end of his trigger finger, Charlie would not be there on the other side, waiting for him. This much was the one thing he feared more than anything, and the one certainty that he truly believed.

First murder, and now this... The rate he was going, he couldn't possibly expect to win any merits at the Pearly Gates, could he. Beyond that final dream, chased off into the screams and mist, the boy was gone.

Charlie was never coming back, and he would never see him again, in this life or after it...

_It's not your fault._

_I forgive you._

Murphy could accept this now, in a sad and simple fashion. In the end, he couldn't expect to deserve anything else. Not when he wiped the clouds of judgment from his eyes, realizing that it was all of the simplest words he could have ever ask for. Nothing more, and nothing less.

* * *

**4**

It was an old '52 Ford, one of the classic pickup street rods that caught his eye outside of the hotel bar. C-4 automatic transmission. Remodeled with a shiny black base coat and chrome wheels. Casually peering at the window, he saw that the upholstery was a little ratty, but the rest of it didn't leave much to be desired. Twelve volt, dual exhaust, floor shift...

Nice rig.

Murphy just nodded to himself in silent approval, checking around for any suspicious passersby to catch him taking a gander. It was a sense of lingering paranoia that he would probably never get over. The life of an escapee was never meant to be a comfortable one, and he wasn't prepared for an easy journey.

He may be on the run, but at this rate, he couldn't rest assured until he was on the road again. Murphy was undoubtedly tired, and he couldn't cut it sleeping in cemeteries and park benches for the remainder of his days. With only a pocket of dollar coins to his name now (a small donation from the generous truck driver who had ferried him to Boston), he had a long ways to go from the state line before he could consider himself in the clear. It certainly wasn't some quick trip that he could simply make on foot, either.

Even after cleaning up so he didn't look as much like a man on the lam with nowhere to go, Murphy Pendleton was a sight for sore eyes. Despite the state of his clarity, he was already stumbling towards the bar, though his arm clutched to his chest more out of pain than anything. It was a slow night, and quiet, occupied solely by a small crowd and a woman wearing a red dress at the karaoke bar. He put that all behind him as he took a seat at the counter, keeping his eyes trained on the television that hung over the wall. So far, there were little reports covering that bus crash outside of Silent Hill, which killed the driver and inmates during that prison transfer to Wayside Max. No news in regards to the only surviving escapee, for now...

Idly, he wondered how Cunningham was doing after all of that. That look she had on her face when they parted ways by the lake was a familiar one, and still, it haunted him. And then he wondered why he even wondered about it in the first place, like it mattered.

_No._

Dammit, _of course _it mattered. She was Frank's daughter, and the only one who understood what he went through. While the papers said all in black and white just what kind of person Murphy Pendleton was — a murderer who killed the only friend he had left in this world in cold blood, Anne knew the truth. Whether they would carry that to the grave or not was anyone's guess; at this point, he couldn't care less anymore.

He hung his head as the bartender made her way over to Murphy's corner. "So, what can I get you?"

"Whatever this can get me." Murphy still kept his head low as he reached into his coat, slapping a few dollar coins onto the table.

The bartender just gave him a sidelong look before accepting the change, and returned with a glass of straight bourbon on the rocks. He hadn't had straight alcohol in years, and the smooth burning down his throat was a welcome one.

Naturally, that wasn't the only thing he felt. The constant itch of being watched was so palpable that Murphy almost swatted the back of his own head. Instead, he leaned back, turned around, and found the gray eyes of the red-dressed singer utterly pinned on him. Lips pressed to the microphone, breathy words humming from every speaker in the bar.

_"Now you always say that you want to be free...  
"But you'll come running back — said you would baby;  
"You'll come running back... You'll come running back to me!"_

The eye contact was brief, before Murphy tore back to the television screen. The closed captions read off the weather reports and became blurrier the closer he came to the bottom of his glass. The sound of drums and music rattled from the thick corners of his brain, and it was a good thing that Murphy hadn't come here to think much. Not when he couldn't think clearly at all.

_"Oh, time, time, time is on my side!  
"Yeah, time, time, time is on my side..."_

His head nodded forward, because Christ... He was so tired. As uncouth as it might be, falling asleep in the middle of the bar, he hadn't sought shelter in a place that resembled anything close to civilization like this in awhile. It was that small token of familiarity and comfort that lulled him into what felt to be a false sense of security. Maybe it was uneasy suspicion all over again, but for a man with a past to bury behind him, it had to be normal. That was what he had to keep telling himself in order to push forward.

Once the glass was finished, the bartender slid another his way. Murphy immediately slipped from his dazed state, realizing that the song had also faded to an end and some infinitely more atrocious singer began squawking drunkenly into the mic. It was almost enough to rip him into complete sobriety.

He shot a look at the bartender. "I didn't ask for a refill."

"You didn't." The bartender pointed to the woman in the red dress, waving at the end of the bar. "She did."

Murphy ducked his head when he glanced over to her. He wasn't trying to be modest about it, and the more he actively avoided her, the more she seemed intent on giving him shots and pieces of her attention.

Eventually, after several minutes of failed attempts to decline her offer, Murphy looked to her. "You don't have to do that."

She smiled sweetly, shrugging her bare shoulders while nursing a lemon drop. "I don't know. You looked like you needed them more than me. You came in here looking like someone just ran over your dog."

"Uh... Thanks, I guess."

Murphy never did own a dog.

Her lips then moved with an amused twitch. "You're not going to start spilling some kind of sob story to me now, are you?"

Murphy hesitated, picking up the brim of the glass to his mouth. In this kind moment of rare generosity, he would gladly take it. "Wouldn't even dream of it, no."

Even a small fraction of the so-called sob story would have been more nonsensical rambling than what the normal human was capable of comprehending. It would have been worthy of speed-dialing to the local psychiatric ward.

The woman just smiled, bearing her set of perfectly white teeth. "Perfect."

This was going to go over well, even if he couldn't remember half of the shit that came out of his mouth. The quality of the music didn't seem to be seeing much improvement, either. He couldn't say whether if it was inebriation or fatigue that did him in so quickly, and he began to question at what point his liver had checked out the door. Suppose after so many years in prison, he was going to have to start building up that tolerance again. Not that he needed to impress anyone with it. Murphy never did have a lead stomach when it came to alcohol, and in some ways, he was grateful to that. Three drinks always seemed to be his limit, and here this privileged woman was, ready to buy a fourth.

It was a scene that seemed so reversed. Knowing Murphy's luck, this was a dream he was soon to wake out of. Between every sip and chink of glass, his vision hazed his view of her and she moved closer just to remedy that. Soon, she was sitting beside him, laughing with dimpled cheeks, and he was pretty sure that he wasn't laughing with her, but listened to her talk, regardless. He realized by the time she touched his shoulder and got up from the chair, she probably did more of the talking than listening, anyway. And he was fine with that. Murphy never was much of a conversationalist, responding more with simple nods and brief remarks that his company seemed more partial to.

By the end of it all, an hour had gone by. He'd finished his last drink, and then she had leaned in close to his ear. The same, breathy voice whispered with the same flux as her singing one: "I have a room here. You're invited, if you'd like." It was enough to set goosebumps on anyone's skin.

He didn't even know her name.

* * *

**5**

To his chagrin, Murphy did not wake up in a comfortable hotel bed.

Rather, he was sleeping on the ratted upholstery of the '52 Ford, parked in the empty lot of a service station.

After the hangover made its grand introductory to his throbbing skull, he started to wish that he'd swallowed his chivalry and took that woman up on her offer. But with the sound of sirens in frequent passing by the hotel, he knew a good night's sleep was asking for too much. Maybe it was always going to be like this — a life on the constant edge hardly seemed like much of a life at all. But it was a life outside of prison bars. It was a life that he had some kind of vague control of, which was more than what he had before.

He decided that no longer accepting drinks from people at the bar was probably a good place to start this new leaf. Murphy couldn't remember if it had been before or after the red-dressed woman had stormed up the hotel stairs that he had actually left the bar. He also couldn't remember much about breaking into the street rod. At least now he knew that his time in prison didn't quell his finesse when it came to boosting cars. Already Murphy Pendleton was on the road to rediscovery of his old ways.

Rubbing his forehead, he glanced over to the folded up piece of paper, crumbled up in the passenger's seat. Fighting off the migraine that constantly reminded him that it existed, he reached over to unfold it, revealing a map. It seemed that, in his stupor, he had the right mind to circle his current location, several miles southwest of Boston. It wouldn't even be an hour drive before he reached past the state lines, hopefully before the dawn came and some poor bastard would find that he was missing a pickup in the hotel parking lot.

Murphy wasn't any happier with this fact now than he was before, but realized he did what he had to survive. Once he got far enough, he decided he'd ditch the truck, take the map, and head as far south as he could. Maybe jump the border, if he could hitch it.

Reconnecting the power wires together, the electricity within the street rod sprung to life once more, including the radio and lights. Carefully, he adjusted his position behind the driver's seat, drawing the starter wire together to revive the pickup. The transmission just made a pathetic chug.

"Come on, come on... _don't you dare do this to me now, _damn you..." Murphy may be hungover, and he may have tinkered with all of this in a state which he probably had no business handling electrical circuits, but he wasn't a goddamned amateur at this. And this sure as hell was not the first (or likely the last) vehicle that he has ever made off with.

All it took was focus. After a few more attempts, the engine as well as the lights jumped.

_Yes!_

Though... the static on the radio did not bode well. He almost jumped when the volume, several notches too high, blasted throughout the interior. He adjusted the sound, flipped from station to station, which returned white noise and garbled dialogue. Perhaps he was too far out to have picked up broadcasting of any kind. That seemed to be the most realistic scenario. But even when Murphy flipped the knob to turn the radio off, a solitary FM station tuned in. No matter how many clicks, left or right, it was all the same, overly chipper voice reporting from the lousy reception:

_"Today in the news..."_

He stopped, sat back, and listened, as the report continued.

_"A full investigation has been initiated at Ryall State Prison, after the body of a corrections officer was found on site. Authorities have insisted on withholding the name of the deceased until further investigation. Witnesses have, however, reported hearing several gunshots before the culprit presumably vacated the scene. It is also believed that the weapon that had been used was a prison issued firearm. Further details are vague at this time, but officials have claimed that they are, in fact, looking into the matter with sincere intent."_

The voice chattered on, but for Murphy, everything came to a halt when he remembered Cunningham all over again. Her face, her eyes... A look of raw determination. The same look she had given him when she believed that a man named Murphy Pendleton had murdered her father, Frank Coleridge.

_Thank you._

_For what?_

_The truth._

His blood ran cold, and he knew without substantiation. The headlines were already flashing before his mind, flipping reports and newsletters regarding the so-called tragic fate of the corrections officer.

It would be George Sewell — the man who participated in numerous misconducts, such as blackmail, coercion, violence... murder.

He was also Frank Coleridge's killer.

In some sick way, he should be happy. Murphy felt dizzy. He wanted to throw up.

_"This is not the first time the penitentiary has been subjected to close inspection. In the past, Ryall State Prison had been under suspect due to asserted corruption activities taken place among its staff. Investigations on the alleged charges were underway shortly before an untimely riot that broke out in the prison, resulting in four deaths and several casualties..."_

The engine rumbled, with the gas gauge flicking halfway. For several minutes, Murphy stared at the back of white knuckles, his fists clamped over the wheel as he listened. So far, there was no mention of the aforementioned culprit, which meant something. Maybe Cunningham was okay. Maybe she'd have made it back to Wayside before anyone had the chance to notice that she was gone. If she had pulled all those strings and favors just to get Murphy where he was...

_The truth. _That was what she had thanked him for, the last words that rang into his mind before they had gone their separate ways, for the better or worse, on the outskirts of Silent Hill. If there had been enough time, perhaps he would've known better. After all, seeing where actions had gotten him, how far he had come now...

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. You have to hit rock bottom, care about nothing and lose everything in order to finally do it right. When it was Murphy in those shoes, he couldn't do even that. But Cunningham, with cold eyes and a edge rougher than sand, had been able to do just that in his stead.

Whether plagued by guilt or remorse or merciless indifference, she was probably out there, somewhere. And here he sat behind the steering wheel of a stolen truck, in a place where he could regrettably do nothing.

So, really, nothing much about his life had changed.

His grasp towards freedom was always nothing more than a joke, and an idea of self-deception. The place where he was, the place where he's headed, would never let him go. Perhaps that said a lot about both him and Cunningham.

Murphy felt numb to it all of a sudden, as he adjusted the rearview mirror. There was no sign of tailing headlights as he pulled out onto the narrow highway. It was cold out. He had a long and lonely drive ahead of him...

There wasn't much of anything at all in this dense, open road. Instead, for a few, brief moments, as his eyes cast over the reflective glass, a hint of reality played tricks. Surfaces rippled and shook in the faceless echo of the mirror.

_Truth is like sun. You can block it out, but it isn't going away._

The radio static cut in again. It was going to be cloudy today, with a likely chance of rain.


End file.
